Way Back Machine

January 8, 1990

I've been here four days now.  La vie Parisienne.  Right. We're in the 9th arrondissement, an old apartment on a small street, just a few short blocks long that has a music conservatory down the street.  I can't decide if I'm jealous because I haven't played a piano since I left home, or if I'm annoyed because some of the students are less than.  It annoys me all the same.  

Three sleeps in the same bedroom I've imagined since I was a child.  Giselle described it to me when we were kids and I don't think she's changed it much.  It's totally not what I expected.  It's really small and it's all white.  There is no carpet so my feet are cold in the mornings.  You could fit two or maybe even three of it in my room back home.  I try not to think of that as home any more.  It's not really working.  

I still have the nightmares and I can't sleep sometimes.  I know he's not here and even if he knew where I was there isn't thing one he could do abou it. He's an idiot.  He has no passport and no future.  But still I look over my shoulder anyway.  I haven't been alone since it happened, so it's wierd that Giselle is out on a date and her parents have left for the country.  The bandages came off my leg before I got on the plane but I was too scared to look.  The nurse said the stitches will disolve. There are only 3.  But the ink will be there forever.  It hurts like hell and it makes me so damn mad.  I think I will really look later when I take a shower so if I cry, no one will see me. 

Today's the first day I've had time to write much.  It's hard to journal in front of other people and it's too cold to hang out in a park. 

The apartment is different.  There is practically no kitchen.  Really... 3 feet of counter space, a dishwasher that doubles as a clothes washer if you work it right, no microwave, two stove burners and a bar fridge I swear.  Gieslle laughs at me frequently.  She has that "oh little you" look on her face.  The one that makes me feel about an inch tall and I envy her sophistication.   "nous ne cuisinons pas."  I get it.  No one here, it seems, actually cooks.  And given how skinny everyone is, I doubt they eat. 

 

We walked home last night after lingerie shopping.  Real French women wear lace it seems. I may be the only crazy american red head around, but at least I speak some of the language and I can shop where they shop.  That's neat.  Everyone we passed seemed to be enjoying bites of a baguette.  The smell of baking bread is making me constantly hungry!  I looked down as we passed another boulangeire and noticed that the streets are literally covered in crumbs.  It looks like hundreds of lost little children scattered them so they could find their way home again. 

 

Maybe that's what I should do... scatter crumbs so when I feel totally lost I can find my way again.

 

Just Because

Really really random shit that I just have to get out of my head space.. the rent is just too damned expensive. 


If you believe in first amendment rights to free speech than you're probably going to hate some of the things you hear... and no, you do not get to be selective about who gets the right and who doesn't.  It has something to do with that "all men are created equally." thing... you might want to read up.   Eat at chick fila or not, gotta love it or hate it at coldstone, craft ala hobby lobby or done.  It doesn't really matter in the long run.  Something about judge not lest you be judged??? It's an oldie but a goodie. 


If you're going to behave like a spoiled child and tell me that I blew it and scold me, do your homework and make sure I actually fucked up.  And since I didn't, have the grace to take your tail, tuck it firmly between your legs and go on about your merry way.  Do not, play the tattle tale game.   It makes you look foolish and it irritates me. 


I am not a horrible person for agreeing to raise another woman's child.  I am the only decent fucking mother that child has every known.  I did not ever intend to steal her or exclude anyone.  What I did agree to was this:  To love her, cherish her, treat her like fine china and precious gold and to protect her from harm.  And I'm doing it.  One day at a time and it's too damn bad if you're the thing I have to protect her from. 


Please do not ask me if my children are adopted.  Especially in front of them.  Ask me alone if you must, but I'll likely think less of you for it.  It's none of your business... and unless I tell you up front because I love you, know you and trust you, the really why would u care. And please, teach your children about the blessings of family - every family, regardless of it's racial composition, it's gender roles, number of participants, generations, etc.  It. Does. Not. Matter.  and it's noneya unless you're involved.  So if you're tempted to ask... think twice. 


Stop dying on my watch.  I'm sick of people dying around me.  31 in 15 days is far too many to have any sort of hand in or knowledge thereof.  Turn off your cell phones, buckle your seat belts, keep your cars in good repair and concentrate on getting from point a to point b with as little drama as humanly possible. 


Do not come into my home and accuse of me of ridiculousness until you have your house in order.  That glass houses and stone throwing thing.  You have no idea what goes on in my home.  You know not the laughter, love and family unity that exists within its walls.  You think you can find some little speck of dirt?  We all have them... and your's are the size of a landfill... god knows.  And karma is a huge bitch I cannot wait to rain down upon you. 

And lastly, be nice.  That's it.  Behave and be nice.  Take in your neighbors trash can for them.  Pick up a piece of litter that didn't need to be there.  Stop jumping to conclusions about shit you know nothing about it and assume the best for a change.  Laugh at a joke that wasn't overly funny because you know the teller will be happier for it.  Stand up on the train so someone else can sit.  Just be nice.  

Like an old shoe

It's been a while, old friend. I should apologize for neglecting you so, but I won't.  You're here for me, my words and not the reverse.  I come back to this place over and over, like a comfy old shoe and for the life of me someday's I cannot figure out why.   Do I really want to vent my deepest and darkest secrets in this space?  Perhaps I do.  Do I really want everyone to know my vague insecurities, my worries, fears, pain and joys?  Guess not, or I'd splash my name and face all over it, wouldn't I?  


So nearly midnight on a random Monday when I've had barely 4 hours sleep and one of the biggest meetings of my life is in 9 hours, why I am here?   It's all very simple.  There's a game a foot, one that threatens the safety and sanctity of everything I hold near and dear to my heart.  And I have 9 hours to get my head into it.  One doesn't usually think of women as warriors, but when the parting shot after loosing badly in court is that you won't stop until you've got your child back and watched mine taken from me... it's the proverbial shot over the bow.  One that I will step up to, acknowledge and fire back at until I've no more fight left in me or I've won the war. 


Man, I'm good at being vague aren't I?  

I will say the one thing I have going for me is that I've chosen to live my life with a sense of purpose, a moral compass, with integrity and passion.  I've lived a life that those who know me, know where I stand and who I am.    And in the end, Karma's a huge bitch I have nothing to worry about. 

Father

There is a man who doesn't always thing so highly of himself.  Someday's he needs a gentle reminder of all that is right in his world... a boost as it were, to make sure he gets how amazing he can be.  So when our youngest female child began her latest decent into despair and we managed to get from her that he looked like R and that it worried her that Daddy and R were the same scary person, a plot hatched.  A plot of his own making, mind you, no one asked him to do this.  He said to me, "what if I shave my head, ditch the beard and die what's left back black?  Do you think I'd still resemble that jackass?"   


I don't think so.  Frankly I don't see the resemblance in the first place, but obviously she does and it's made the last few weeks sheer torture for her.  To me there is no comparison between the monster who tried to end her life and the gentle, sweet, loving daddy who has been her world for nearly 2 years.  I almost thought he was kidding, except I know him too well, and there isn't anything he wouldn't do for his girls. 


So off he went while I cleaned the house, finished up some chores.  And then there he was again, in my face, with his very differently looking face next to mine.  "is the goatee straight?  Is the mustache even?"  And it occurred to me he was serious.  The vast majority of the beard was gone, the mustache neatly trimmed.  O.o.  I helped when it came to the final locks of that rich, think, black, mop and soon it was nothing more than a pile on the bathroom floor.  Not that he hasn't done it before... just never with such purpose.  


When all was said and done, she squealed in delight, that her daddy would do something like this for her.  We've talked some, this child and I about what a daddy is and how you can have more than one, how even one who did not have a hand in your creation can be the one who raises you and ushers you toward a successful future.  If she gets even a smidgen of the message I'll be good.  And he'll always be awesome.  

17 Months and 14 Days

They stick with me... those words, time frames, an indication of an event so overwhelming in one's life that even forty plus years later it's recalled with such stunning clarity. I bet this individual could perhaps even narrow it to the hours if you asked.  I won't.  I know as much of the story as I'm allowed and I'm grateful for having had the opportunity to listen and ask a few demure questions.  It's not my story to tell. 


The notion however, of the experience that so forever changes your life you can recall it in amazing clarity down to the day, the hour, the very minute you long for it to be over, is mine... and I'll discuss it however damn much I like.  


Everything in our live is measured in 3 month or 6 month increments.  Time between court hearings, meetings, reports and review. We're up to 16 and 1/2 months now.  I counted yesterday, in a brief moment of frustration, and the irony of it hit me full force.  Our 17 months and 14 days will be on July 4th.  Independence day.  It's not lost on me that while we as a country are celebrating the birth and resilience of a nation,  my family will be continuing to try our level best to hold together the life of a little person with meds, therapy, kisses, band aids and maybe even a little duct tape.  It's a Mcguyver'd life, that's for sure.  Some days it feels good and other days, like today where I send her off to a visit she doesn't want and cannot emotionally handle that I feel like it's sand slipping quickly and coolly through my fingers and I cannot stop it.  For the "system" that was designed to protect her has gotten to big for it's own britches and will no longer follow their own laws and rules and now makes them up as they go.  And we'll file that under the guise that "each case is unique."  No.. it's not.  They are not different.  Progress, substantive clinical progress should be recognized, celebrated and encouraged.  It should be given time, support, the energy and effort of a thousand people coming together and keeping a family together.  Lack of progress, out right defiance of the rules, disrespect and failures over and over to get with the program should be dealt with swiftly and sharply.  And they are not.  And it's disgusting and offensive. 


Will it be over at her 17 months and 14 days?  It won't.  I know that.  It hurts my heart and stings my soul to no end.  Will it be over at 18 months?  19?  20?  It won't.  I know that too.  It will likely be at least another 6-8 months from now until we can offer her a modicum of peace, stability and tranquility.  More than two years since she began to speak and first called me Mommy and forever captured my heart.  And then I fear we'll spend a life time trying to recover from the hell the "system" has put her through. 

The Power

A few weeks ago, in a moment of mostly self-created despair, a wise man whom I've come to cherish as a  part of my life sent me these words:

Childlike innocence, care free laughter, sleep without interruption, a ray of sunshine, breathless in an intimate moment, the pureness of a rainbow, joy unhindered by the negative --- all things I admire so. Sad to think that life's darkness dulls such beauty. If I had the power...

First of all it was by far the single loveliest collection of words ever to appear in my boring old work email inbox. Secondly it left me momentarily speechless, which is not an easy thing to do. It sums up those things I hold dear to my heart and I love them so because when properly appreciated they hold the power to nourish one's soul.

I find myself coming back to that email, almost daily, these days.  It takes the ugly out of the world, even if for a brief moment in time.  It allows me that moment where I can escape the reality of another three months of hell for my youngest and makes the idea of an endless summer vacation for the oldest seem not quite so much like parental torture.

Thank you for that, my love, thank you for that. 

Sticks and Stones... not.

In the middle of dinner.  A pew in the play land of the church that is the golden arches. The obligatory chicken nuggets with ranch, french fries, apple slices, and chocolate milk.  A plaintiff plea from a Dad who's already had a bad day, "Honey, please just one more nugget and then you can go play."    


The bombshell, deftly deployed.


"You're not my Dad.  T says R is really my dad and you're just the foster father.  I saw him.  He has a mustache and a beard."  Her tone is dismissive.  


The effect is disastrous to the soul of the only real dad she's ever had.  A little bit of him died that day; right there between the bright primary color tables, the video games and the jungle gym.     


How do I know?  How is it possible I can sympathize, empathize and relate to this scene?  It's been me, my scene, a thousand times in as many possible variations the last 17 months of raising this child.  The very first "YOU'RE NOT MY MOMMY!"  complete with foot stomping, arms folded in complete isolation, and defiant stare, takes your breath away.  It robs you of the ability for coherent thought for a moment.  It kills quickly some portion of your soul that still believes in innocence and wonder.  You can't ever get it back.  It takes time, patience, love and alcohol - let's be serious here - raising someone else's screwed up child isn't for the faint of heart - to get to a place of understanding that a child in care can call you Mommy for weeks and then suddenly have a visit with their birth mother, come home scared, lonely, confused and upset and your parental stock plummets to zero with the snap of her little chubby fingers.   I've been Not the Momma so many times, I'd like to think I've become immune to it's charms.  Truth be told, I'm not.  It hurts each and every time.  But I love her and I can understand that she comes from a lifetime of manipulation, lies, secrets and chaos that I, as a child, was blessedly unfamiliar with.  I'm the Mommy who creates responsible meals for her, finds age and size appropriate clothing for her, makes her do chores and help out around the house, comforts her hurts and allows her to cry on my shoulder when she needs to.  I'm the one she turns to daily to have her shoes tied, to help her brush her teeth, to tell her secrets to.  But life with me isn't Disneyland.  I don't come home every night from work bearing candy, toys and presents.  I just am consistently there, in the background, making sure her little life goes forth successfully and hopefully uneventfully.   


I hope one day that her first Momma will come to her senses and voluntarily sign her rights away so that we may adopt her and become her forever Mom and Dad.  Do I think there is a realistic chance that will happen?  Not it hell froze over tomorrow and satan began handing out margaritas.  I have a modicum of faith in the system and hope that time will finally be on our side and the powers that be will see the best interests of this child.   I have to have that faith, or I couldn't get through this and still remain sane. Truly. 


But for the Dad, things are different.  There's never been another dad in the picture. The shock, grief and rage he feels doesn't allow him to see beyond the words and into the scared little soul of a girl who never knew she had a "real" father, who is wildly confused, sad, upset, mad, running a gamut of emotions she hasn't words for at such a tender age. 

He is stuck in utter devastation for the moment.  I get that.  And it's my job as his wife and mother of his children to help him understand that our daughter isn't intentionally trying to stab him in the heart.  She's trying to make sense of a situation for which there is no logic and very little reason and unfortunately she isn't mature enough to choose her words carefully nor has she learned that words do indeed have the power to wound.  

Enough Already

I said to myself about two weeks before my birthday that I really wanted to write more positively and more often about the gifts in my life.  I was going to do that cheesy countdown daily until my next birthday.  I. Am. Not.  I discovered this week - affectionately named the week from utter hell for a reason - that I do not have time each and every day to write.  Some days it cuts into my sleeping, and dear god, I need every minute I can get.    Also... some days I'm just not so fucking positive and how can I claim to be on this path of experiences and self discovery if all I ever write is the positive.  Between an argument with the husband that got wildly out of control, a diminutive shop lifter I have to address today, another daughter who is so lost and confused about who she is and where she fits into the world she lashes out at anyone and everyone, a leg cramp so painful in the middle of the night I awoke screaming, case workers and meetings, doctor's appointments and car issues still waiting to be resolved in this blessed heat, I haven't a clue how to be positive today.   I do however, know how to feel.  I know how to immerse myself in an experience and feel empathy and sympathy for others and that I can write about.  I think I will learn from that and grow as a person and a mother.  Isn't that what it's all about? 

364 - MIL

When life takes that unexpected detour and you find yourself rushing home from work to spending the evening at urgent care, it is good to have family.  Especially a mother in law who loves my daughters as much as I do, and who doesn't hate the Golden Arches like I do and who will drop everything to make sure I can have a few minutes peace while we navigate yet another illness and/or injury to make sure my love stays on track and gets better quickly.  

365 - A Single Candle

Amid the crinkle of a take out box and the giggles of my daughter, there was but a single candle on the slice of birthday cake in the box.  Just one.  It was all I needed to celebrate my firm entry into my forth decade.  It was a giant slice of a tuxedo truffle cake.  Next to it sat another giant slice of tiger layer cake.  Oh, I do love them both.  Getting to share bites their velvety chocolate and cream goodness with two of the three loves of my life was lovely.  It saddens me that my youngest daughter was already in bed, but the antics of small people have to be handled regardless of celebrations.  I just remind myself that this too shall pass. 


I blew out the candle and I wished for the same thing that I wish for every year, real candle or imaginary.  I've done so for a decade or better now.  Perhaps it's time to articulate it and give it voice in the universe. I so want my love to feel better, to do better, to be in a mentally better place.  I think this time someone might have listened.  I don't know if it's a combination of new meds from the new specialist or the hormone levels coming back to some level of stasis.  I do know there is laughter, giggling, jokes and banter, a confident little swagger than I've not seen lately and there is accomplishment.  It is good.  I am thrilled. 

Pre Bday Musing

Bloom where you are planted.  Hold that thought.  I'll get back to it in a bit. 

Cycle of Loss and Renweal

My stepfather in law passed away almost six months ago.  He stopped living many many moons before.  I've written of him previously, his drinking and abuse, the hate that spewed from his mouth and the life not so much lived as belligerently existed.  He was exhausting to be around, and a part of me is not sad that he is gone from us.  The part of me that cares deeply for his stepson, his wife and caretaker, his grandchildren; that part of me has great compassion for those that truly miss him and struggle with his loss.    


Last night on the patio of my mother in laws brand spanking new condo, she said to me, "I tried not to miss him... but I do anyway."  How could you not miss someone with whom you lived with, loved and were married to for 20 years?    She says she doesn't miss the house - it was a ton of work, in great disrepair and sucked her into the vortex of being not good enough, not, not, not.  But she misses the neighbors and the neighborhood.  I get that.  It makes perfect sense to miss the people who cared enough about your safety to check in on you and make sure your husband didn't take out one of his violent drunken rages upon you.   


She says she doesn't get it when everyone tells her it's normal to not feel like you've got your bearings or solid footing, "after all you've been through."  She truly does not understand that a year of taking care of a bedridden husband in hospice care is exhausting, both mentally and physically and the fact that he manipulated, berated and tortured her throughout made it exponentially worse.  She has spent 20 years in servitude to his disease.  


I get that.  Her son gets it.  It's time for her now.  The new glasses, trips to the doctor and dentist, new furniture and new clothing.  They are things she should have done decades ago and never did.   My wish for her future is people who lift her up, praise her abilities and lavish love upon her.  

Done

I asked... something in me needed to.  He hesitated briefly, "I uh, finished up and moved on."  Ouch.  It is what it is I suppose. 

Life goes on.

One of things I love most about my neighborhood is the open space and the farming.  Drive a minute and see the cotton grow during the fall.  Little tiny puff balls of almost white proudly perched atop what looks like brambles.  Drive a minute during the summer and see the bright green corn stalks taller than I am.  Drive south a minute and come to the dark green field studded with orange pumpkins.  And in between?  When the frost stops the fences go up and the lambs come.  It springs up overnight.  I never see it coming but then one day, there they are.  Mama sheep and the lambs, soon to be mamas lumbering around and the grass once higher than proper, all nibbled neatly down to nothing.  And behind my ever so humble abode?  The rancher whom I've never met, but always admires allows his goats to roam freely for the first time all year.  And I love to walk the dog and greet them... watch them jump back and forth over the small irrigation canal like it's the best game ever; most with their swollen bellies and babies in waiting, and hear their low "neeeh" while they approach the fence to nuzzle my hand and see if I might have anything special for them.  And I just might.

Sunflowers

Five days a week I walk E to the bus stop bright and early. It's all of a decent blocks walk, we are still struggling to shrug off the sleep, but it's time. Time together, usually just the two of us, where I get to hold her hand if she lets me, brush the hair back out of her face, talk about school and what not. Each day for the last three weeks I've been pointing out a certain clump of plant life in a neighbor's yard. It's where the sunflowers bloom each spring. A tiny patch around a brightly painted mailbox no more than 18" square that seemingly at random spring forth with a glorious riot of color around my birthday each year. And then before you've ever really had your fill of them, poof, they are gone. It reminds me of fig season. I salivate in anticipation all year long, hunt them down - for they don't grow in my desert - thoroughly enjoy each and every bite and when I go back to the store for more, find out I've been stood up till next year.

Monday, I pause at the bright green plants with their study leaves and tightly closed buds and I say to E, "won't be long now.. the sunflowers are coming." She nods and smiles at me, not quite getting it but she gets that I'm excited about it and it's enough for her.

There they were this morning. 2 dozen or so tightly closed buds just lifting up their little heads toward the sun. but then I saw it... almost totally open, bright yellow petals shining like a new morning and that chocolate center looking oh so fine. I pointed. E looked, eyes wide like she almost didn't believe it. A shared giggle, a duck of her head and a wide shy smile came across that face. I've made my point. Good things come to those who wait, those who understand there is graceful and delicate rhythm to patience, anticipation and satisfaction, those who understand there is nothing gratifying about an instant.

For my 41st year I've made a promise to myself to slow down a little, to remind myself of all the truly wonderful and special moments we all take for granted. Each day a new thing or something I've failed to notice or something that brings me peace and joy. I'm going to document it. I have a couple weeks before the beginning of that year, but why not start now?

Rock, Paper, Scissors

A few days ago E and A got into a squabble about something so silly only a mother could love them both through it and still remain sane. I sat on the porch with their grandmother, enjoying the sun and her company. I had no absolutely intention of returning to the living room to settle lego wars part 1. I suggested the time honored tradition of rock, paper, scissors. E slammed the front door in a huff and went to do whatever it is warring children do when their mothers refuse to intervene. Moments later she was back at the screen door, "moooooooom... A says she has scissors that can cut a rock!" Surely the world must revolve around the wisdom of a 4 year old with a vivid imagination and a genuine lack of affinity for the truth. "No she doesn't..." I explained yet again, "Rock smashes scissors. Paper covers rock. Scissors cut paper. Now go." Quiet reigned for a mere 2 minutes until E emerged and slammed the screen door behind her. In her hands were a sheet of white paper and my good yellow handled kitchen scissors. She had a look of determination about her and she made a beeline for the nearest rock of any heft. "Oh child... what are you up to?" Sheepishly she considered me from beneath dark and fringy lashes. "I wanna test the physics of rock, paper, scissors and prove to A that she's wrong." Nothing like sibling rivalry between two budding geniuses.

Whirlwind

From the moment her eyes snap open and her tiny feet hit the hardwood floor until the moment an adult insists she pull the covers up and go to sleep, she is neither still nor silent. I ask her "A, do you ever shut up?" Without missing a beat, "NOPE!"

Apologetic (or Tweet This)

My Dearest Little A,

Bitch slapping your big sister, exclaiming it to be an accident, tossing out a half-assed apology and beating feet in a hasty retreat is clearly not acceptable no matter how cute you are. It just might earn you a bloody nose one day. Love always, Mom.

Lessons Learned

On the way to her play date with her new friend N, E randomly asked me if I had been married once or two times. I answered and waited. The next question was about why Grandma had two husbands and Daddy had two wives. I explained briefly and offered to show her photos of her other Grandpa and Daddy's ex-wife if she wanted to see them. No thank you was the very polite reply. I let it go and turned up the radio. Two songs later we've sang through being too sexy and we knew it, had some apple bottom jeans with the fur going on and she asked if Daddy ever saw his ex any more. I said no, that she wasn't in his life anymore and hadn't been in many years but that he wished her well and hoped her life was everything she wished it to be. We talked a bit and I tried to explain that loving someone meant wanting the best for that person regardless of what it meant for you. She cocked her head and looked up at me. I tried again… doesn’t matter if you agree with someone’s choices, doesn’t matter if you like their decisions, you just want for them what brings joy to their soul and peace to their heart. If she even gets a smidgen of that notion, I’ll be happy.

We arrived at the park and feed a few ducks while we waited for her friend. Once they spotted each other it was game on. Four hours of racing between the carousel, the train ride, and the parachute drop. Hands in the air and screaming on the dragon wagon gave way to furious spinning and giggling through the teacups. They downed hotdogs and sipped soda, chattering like long lost friends. They held each other’s diminutive hands while they fed the ducks and went down the slide headfirst. A friendship developed somewhere in the midst of a great debate over pringles vs. doritos. There are photos, exchanges of email addresses, and addresses, phone numbers and the promise of life long pen pals. I truly believe that they will. I’ve discovered there is a lesson or three in these last four hours… if only one chooses to listen and learn.

She’s a thoughtful child, my firstborn, I don’t know if I shared with you her tooth fairy visit. It was a couple weeks ago, on a Thursday night when I was running late for work, trying to wake up, throwing dinner on the table and packing mine to go. E was wiggling and I finally exasperatedly told her to just yank the darn tooth out. She did. It bled everywhere and I felt bad. It turned out to be fine. I left the details of the tooth fairy pillow, the dollar, the sneakiness of it all to the dad and I left. The next morning after my flight of the bumblebee to make it home in time to walk her to the bus stop she says to me that she’s giving her dollar to her teacher because they need to buy more swings and slides for the play ground. I laugh thinking of how much those things really cost and that her dollar is but a drop in the bucket but I don’t say anything. She really does it. Her teacher emailed me later to tell me how thoughtful my child is and how moved she and the principal were by the generosity exhibited by a six year old on a random Friday. She earns an award in their Character Counts program and I’m bursting with pride. And I know I’ve learned something from this that I’ll carry with me forever.

On a different day A comes home from a visit, the ones that make me nervous, sweaty and jumpy, distracted as all get out for four hours each and every Monday until she comes back to me and I can ensure for myself that my baby is safe and secure, but I digress… she has with her a toy Angry Bird. It’s a stupid video game to begin with…the fact that they make toys from it mystifies me and the idea that her birth person thought it would make an appropriate xmas gift for a little girl boggles my mind. A is hopped up on the sugar of a full liter of soda, the carbs of whatever crap she was fed for her "dinner" and the nerves and anxiety that come with such events. She won’t look me in the eye. She won’t focus. It’s normal. Nothing much changes. She shows up and birth person tries to buy her love and affection. But this time, my baby says to me… Momma, take the mad bird away.. he makes me sad. So I did. And I know there is a lesson to be learned here. Every four-year-olds can tell the difference between genuine love and affection and an show intended to impress someone. The next Monday she asks me to come with her to her visit. I explain that I as much as I would love to, that I cannot and it’s her special time to be with that person. She refuses to dress, eat breakfast and I have to drag her to school. Her logic? If she doesn’t go to school, no one can pick her up for a visit. She’s a smart one my angel.

My parents arrive on Christmas Eve, closely followed by my sister and her husband. A’s birthday is discussed, seeing as how they missed it, and we celebrate it again with presents, desert after dinner etc. A rips into her presents like a birthday champ. She is overjoyed with her Monkey George, her chef’s hat and apron, the tools, her barbies, you name it. This little girl cannot believe that all of these fine things are for her. She asks me more than once if she can keep them. I assure her that she can. I help her name her Monkey. We put him to bed on her bed. We have dinner as a family and allow her to unboggle her mind a bit. When I tuck her and George and half a dozen other stuffies into bed later that night she asks if Santa is really coming tonight. I remind her that we set out the plate of cookies and the glass of milk, we gathered oats, glitter and carrots for the reindeer and yes indeed… they are coming… but not if she peeks. I find her in the morning, face down with her pillow over her head, just in case Santa might think she peeked and leave her lumps of coal. Omg.. how precious.

Christmas morning E is impatient; thrilled, excited and over the moon that Santa brought her an awesome stocking and presents. A is quieter and a little clingy. She has no concept of Christmas morning and all that it entails in a big family. I almost miss it while I’m cooking breakfast for everyone, but my mom walks into the kitchen and puts her hand on my shoulder and tells me that It’ll keep. She nods towards the kids and I get it. One by one, the presents get unwrapped and A’s eyes light up over and over, trying desperately to take it all in. E helps, a bit, distracts more and finally A edges toward her favorite corner of the couch with her favorite stuffie and just settles in a bit, busies herself with her juice and contemplates. You can see the wheels turning in her head. I give her that space because she seems to just need time to process.

At breakfast the next morning – Cracker Barrel, she and E both devoured pancakes with real maple syrup, which might be a first for A. It was a day of firsts… Aunt K and Uncle K took the girls to a movie – A’s first in a theater and first trip in a convertible with the top down, before that we went to Cabella’s to see the aquarium and all the taxidermy animals… yet more firsts. We named them all, talked about the scary ones, discussed which ones could eat you and giggled. I think they both loved every minute of that day. And when they went to bed, so tired they couldn’t keep their respective eyes open another minute, E told me I was the best Mommy ever and A told me that she wanted to change her name to match ours. They both slept well. So did I.. for the first time in weeks.

You know what I've learned from all of this? I know you do.. don't you? I've learned that I have to stop this madness of working all night and sleeping all day. I have to start living again, like a human being, making time for the simple things, the little things that I've given short shrift to this year. I have to spend weekend mornings with my people, cooking pancakes and watching cartoons. I have to enjoy more and stress less. I truly thought I was doing the right things. I know now that I was not and that I've missed more than I care to acknowledge. I have to get back to respecting that inate goofyness and silliness that I was blessed with. The part of me that played in the leaf pile today with the kids and squirted whipped cream in their mouths and oops (up their noses!)... there is something so genuine and amazing about making a forever friend in fifteen minutes and I'm so thrilled that I got to be a part of it. There is something to be said for leaving the dishes in the sink, allowing the laundry to sit another day and just existing in the moment. I know that now.

It’s been an amazing year, this 2011. It didn’t start off that way and it’s had its bumps and bruises along the way. It hasn’t been without it’s drama and stresses but overall I can’t really complain, ya know? So I wanted to say to you the things I said to the rest of my family at Christmas dinner: Thank you for putting up with me through all of my craziness, for supporting my less than conventional lifestyle though I’m sure you’ve had your share of head shaking at my choices. I will forever be grateful for everyone in my life accepting A and loving her as much as I do. She couldn’t have asked for a better extended family to be a part of her "forever." Thank you for holding my hand, offering advice, keeping me sane at times and for always telling me the truth when I needed to hear it most whether I wanted it or not. I am grateful and humbled by each of you and thankful each day that you are in my life.

My wish for 2012 is a little less stress for all of us, a little more peace, and opportunities that bring us new challenges and new joys. May 2012 be the UP year that we’ve all been anxiously awaiting.

"May God grant you always...A sunbeam to warm you, a moonbeam to charm you, a sheltering Angel so nothing can harm you. Laughter to cheer you. Faithful friends near you. And whenever you pray, Heaven to hear you."

Time

Where exactly does time go? Does it fly? Does it creep? Does father time slow the clocks on purpose when you have better things to do than wait or work? Does mother nature speed up the time to get through the beauty of spring and deliver us to the depths of a hellish summer? Tell me pretty please... where does time go?

Six months I've put off writing for another day. I'm too busy. The kids are making me busier. My life is crazy. I need to sleep. Work has gotten in the way. Life happened. So much has changed I think we've come full circle in six months and one week.

Why exactly did I answer that phone long those many months ago? Actually I didn't. Not that it matters much now. I had the handsome husband answer that phone because the damn thing would not stop ringing. Did I know who it was? Oh yeah. My bad. When we met T a year or so ago I shied away. Kind of. She isn't my kind of person. She lies. She's manipulative. Other than motherhood we have nothing in common. I'm not sure we even have that considering I actually wanted my child, took great care to have her healthy and happy. My child is cherished, probably a bit spoiled and very much the center of my world. Her approach to motherhood has been accidental, drug induced, rage filled and booze fueled.

So she got cozy with the husband and worked him. Not in a romantic way - that would almost have been easier to combat. She had his sympathy. She tugged at his heart. Because he has a huge heart and he's a sucker for a woman in distress, especially if she has children. And oh does she ever. That little voice in the back of my head that said run... run fast and run far from this disaster in the making before it has the ability to overtake you. I listened. I however, failed to communicate that gut wrenching, anxious, dreadful feeling to the handsome husband and dammit I know why. Because we are so blessed and we have so much and to be selfish just isn't in me. And I could not tell the sweetest and most honest man who ever lived that I wanted him to walk away from those three people in need. I feared he would think less of me. I know he would.

The spring passed last year and it turned hot. I watched from a far as the children played outside, miserable and filthy, with nothing really to play with on the hard scrabble ground. I watched as they tried to keep cool with a hose, turning the ground into this sort of reddish clay that clung to their skin and muddied their already dirty clothes. Some days T was there, other days not so much. I heard the tales of foraging dumpsters for food, collecting cigarette butts from the ground for a nicotine fix, and I shook my head in disgust and dismay. And then came the days that physically she was there tottering around on unsteady feet and mentally her brain cells were clogged with the drugs that stole her from reality.

I softened a bit over the weeks. Asked the children in for a break from the heat. Into the cool and sometimes dark cave that is our living room, complete with all the trappings of the semi middle class. How foreign it must have been to have computers, big screen tvs, video games and toys at their disposal, abet borrowed ones. I've learned that as they've gone from house to house, crashing on the couch of whomever might allow it, or whomever had the drugs their mother craved, most of their lives were left behind. Pets, clothes, toys, personal possessions were not treated with the respect most of us give our "stuff."

We had dinner together a few times, always just the girls and their mother would stop in for a brief bit. Just long enough to eat, never long enough to face the questions of how she was going to get them to a better place, a better life. Never so long that one of us might make mention of her altered mental state.

And oh the tales we weave when first we set out to deceive. The dread over the looming release date of the ex who had tried to kill them. The despair over having lost a storage unit with all of their things. The missing money. The untrustworthy brother. The wailing and gnashing of teeth over lost jobs, lost family, friends and finally of lost hope. The unwavering belief that every crappy thing that's come to stand in the way of their success as a family is always someone else's fault. True? As I've come to know these last six months and I've repeated over and over until it has become my mantra. I'll believe it when I see it.

The week I started working nights the last phone call from T came. Come visit. Bring food. Let's bbq. Typical, but we did mostly because we wanted to check on the girls. They were stuck in some two-bit non nondescript motel along the highway... waiting she said... never sure what for. Begging for money to be able to stay there each night, picking up an odd job or two when she needed a fix. Such a life for a teenager and a baby. As the night ended, I grew more wary of her stories, her crap and her flair for the dramatic. It just never quite adds up to the truth. We brought home a dog from that visit. T insisted that she found it but could not keep it. Actually she found it for the husband because he'd mentioned some day wanting one and she knew I did not. Yet another attempt to fracture our happy family because if her's wasn't happy no one else should be either. One notion I've overcome resenting ever time I look at the dog. Maggie grows on you, with her cute little black face and semi sad eyes, but seriously dammit... it should have been our decision in our own time to become doggie parents.

Poof... they were gone. A brief text at Christmas from a number I didn't recognize and that was it. I wondered what happened to them once in a while. As we blew out the birthday candles and M turned 5, I thought about little A's 3rd birthday approaching and wondered if there would be presents and a cake, though I knew better. When the wind kicked up in December and I pulled my jacket a little tighter around my neck I said a prayer that T had sense enough to find jackets for the girls. On New Year's Eve as we arrested drunk after drunk after senseless drunk driver I prayed they were safe somewhere... after all it was big A's 15th birthday and a time for celebrating double, though I doubt they did.

January 2011 was a cold one indeed. I took to wearing a jacket daily. Seemed strange to have all this cold and nasty weather. I grew up with this and moved to get away from it. I had forgotten how bitterly cold it could be when there was no humidity. The kind of cold that made it hurt to breathe. The kind of cold that kept you running... from work to the car, from the car to the house and everywhere in between. The kind of cold that kept your head down and your gaze averted lest the wind whip you in the face and the sand scratch your eyeballs.

Time passed... there I ago again with that infernal notion of time. The phone call ended with that plaintiff refrain, "are you willing?" And there was no other answer than "bring them to me." It became a whisper in the wind, trailing off towards the end, "bring them to me." An idea so strange and so bold, so foreign to be asked to raise another woman's children because the powers that be finally got a clue and decided that she could not. I wept that night on the way to work, thinking that the baby with the bright blond curls and the stunning blue eyes that I had fallen in love with last summer, might finally be safe. Even if it was only for a little while.

How little did I know what time had in store for me. How little did I know how much I could give, how much I could love and how much I could learn in seven short months.

"Can you teach me about tomorrow and all the pain and sorry, running free... 'cuz tomorrow's just another day and I don't believe in time."

Like Mother, Like Daughter, Like Grand Daughter

His email was short, to the point, and incredibly supportive in the face of my losing yet another dear fur child.... the eighth since we entered each other's lives going on six years ago. Old age is a cruel and mighty bitch and while you can stave it off for a while with love and good care, it always wins the end. This we both know. "It tears my heart out... I don't know how you do it. Know my heart is with you in this sad moment."

What he didn't expect was the reply and as it came forth from my fingertips clip-clopping against the keyboard, I found that I didn't expect it either.

How do I do it? Sometimes I think not very well at all. I cry a lot. I'm a big baby and a total train wreck for a little while and I've come to believe that it's okay. And other times I think that you taught me well how to handle it. I remember all of the amazingly joyful moments each one gave to me and the wonder and utter delight they brought to my life. The pain of losing them is somehow less than the idea of never having had the opportunity and genuine pleasure of being their Mom.

Time heals... it truly does. You know, you gave me quite the compliment the other day when you said that that your daughter reminds you of me. Honestly I had a conversation with someone at work last week that I've been helping about similar things. She's been using me as a sounding board for her problems and she said to me that she felt sorry for me and all the crazy things that have happened to our family in the last few years. I almost laughed and she must have thought I was nuts.

I explained. Feeling sorry for myself and having other people feel sorry for me is a total waste of time. It is what it is. And I suppose all of this stuff occurs in my life because I am able to get through it with my sanity and hopefully some small measure of grace. I know exactly how your daughter feels. Everything about me is intense. I work hard, I love hard, I play hard and I give life every bit I have and some days it's enough and on the days it isn't I retreat a little, take a few deep breaths and keep on going, because honestly? What choice do I have? I'm certainly not a quitter, I have people and things depending on me and it's certainly not in me to wimp out now. On some level the roller coaster becomes routine. And as you always remind me, consciously or not... I picked it.

It brings to the forefront of my life the notion of strong women. Not physically strong, although that is surely a part of it, but more than that there is a mental toughness and a resilience that comes from being battered about a bit by life and knowing when and how to kick back. My Mother is an incredibly strong woman when I think about it. She's seen my Dad through nearly 50 years of marriage, two children, multiple surgeries and illnesses, business successes and failures, a very late entry into the working world when I was a teenager and hell... let's face it... any high school drop out in her early 20s who looks her baby daughter in the face and then enrolls in night school on no sleep and no time just to finish so her children would be proud of her is one hell of a woman. There was never any question in our young lives as to whether or not we would be successful... just the question of what we would be successful at. The last ten years have seen her retire, face two different cancers bouts, fight the fight of her life and come back swinging. I've rarely seen her cry. I've never seen her panic. I've seen her logically and methodically engineer her life and my father's life down the path they decided upon all those years ago. Bumps in the road and all, she's done it with grace and style. How could I not be just like her? How could I not want my daughter to be just like her?

It's exactly why I don't helicopter my child. I don't lie to her. I don't take her age appropriate choices away from her and I don't sugar coat her tiny little life. Sometimes there are disappointments. They make you stronger. Sometimes you have to scribble that heart attack on paper to understand for yourself why Daddy had one. Sometimes you have to learn to deal with what life throws at you and make the best of it.

Visitors in the night

A tiny blonde angel approached as I woke up a little bit ago. She was wearing her red uniform shirt, a red paw print jacket and a blue tinkerbell backpack. And that's it. Really. She extends her hand and says, "Hi my name is Jolly Outlaw, and I'm one of Robin Hood's band of merry misfits. I just wanted to come and visit." What a great way to wake up!

Personal-ity

First day of taking the kiddo to school went great. The TA in the class came up to me, introduced herself and told me how much of a little comedian my darling has become. So much so that when she finishes her worksheets early, she gets to go the the aides desk to get something advanced to work on and entertain the aide. I'm so thrilled they aren't trying to squash her already larger than life little personality!

Volunteers?

You just know it's going to be good when your kidlet enters the room with her art box under one arm, a remote control robot under the other, wearing a chef's hat decorated in cherries, and announces that she'll be needing a volunteer for her next trick.

You put your finger where?

Last night, after dinner and all that jazz, I'm trying to get ready for work. Kiddo is happily ensconced in the middle of my bed watching bugs bunny movies and sucking her fingers, sniffing her boo's paw, whatever. Or at least I think she is. The next thing I know, mid mascara and all, she is howling like death is eminent. I run into the bedroom and what do I see? She has taken my hot pink water bottle, striped the straw out of the straw hole, finished my drink and has her middle finger stuck in the straw hole. Poor thing cannot get her finger back out to save her life and oh yes, the panic has set in. So I try to gently remove it... no dice. I unscrew the bottle from the top to make it lighter and less cumbersome and she thinks I'm trying to chop off her fingers. She won't stop screaming either. So I go find the Dad, he comes running and it takes all three of us, ice, vegetable oil, twisting and tugging to finally get the thing off her poor finger. And it takes off a little bit of skin with it. So yes there's a little blood, some antibiotics and a band aid. And I, the mom, have finally gotten to the point that minor childhood accidents (or stupidity) are no longer traumatic for me. I couldn't stop laughing at her. So all bandaged up, she's wandering around the house giving everyone (including feline and k9 occupants) the finger and proclaiming that she'll never ever again be able to play with any of her toys because her finger shall surely shrivel and fall off by morning... .and then something about her not being special anymore. She is now the official president of the kindergarten drama queen club. Omg... it was hysterical.

Early Bordello Decor

One of my early semesters in college I lived with my Grandmother in the city. I could sit here and reminisce about the three block walk down tree lined streets every morning and afternoon, the aroma and the taste of really good coffee at the little shop adjacent the bus stop, the trek to and fro campus and the education I received. But last night for some reason, I dreamed of the bedroom she assigned me and found myself alternately shaking my head and smiling.

This room, the second bedroom in the house was straight out of the early 1900s, belonged in a brothel above a seedy saloon and deserved a fashionably dressed and painted lady smoking her cigarette through a long black tube standing outside her door waiting for a visitor.

It was a good sized room at the back of the house. It's only windows looked out over a covered patio so there was no real light source, save the window in the walk-in closet that looked out onto a tiny side street next to the house. A flick of the light switch - the kind that clicked on and off, not those silent things we have now - revealed a painted white door and similar popcorn ceiling, adorned with those sparkly doodads that twinkled in the moonlight and had you lying in bed at night thinking of the night sky.

From the door way, directly in front of you was a large four poster bed, usually draped in a white tufted chenille spread, with it's high mahogany head board and equally high foot board. The corner posts always took me to the place where elegant white silk scarves bound delicate wrists in some unspoken and never ending game of passion. I think the white spread and matching accent pillows were grandma's attempt at propriety in a riotous field of color which she clearly did not decorate herself.

To the right of the bed sat one of two matching mahogany night stands, a cream colored lamp and a tall bureau that lounged against the wall next to a simple queen anne wing chair. On the far side of the bed sat the other night stand, same lamp, and a squat six drawer dresser. At the end of the bed against a smooth plaster wall I get the impression of book cases with glass fronts, but I cannot recall exactly. I close my eyes and see leather bound first editions accented with dainty thimbles from her collection and grandfather's many elephant figurines. Yes... they were there. I inherited those and I will cherish them as I did him.

So far nothing out of the ordinary. I suppose that's true. I spent many an hour sitting on that queen anne chair, with it's deep maroon crushed velvet covering, stroking the silky fringe that cascaded from it, like tassels from a burlesque queen. Reading mostly. Studying the likes of Plato, Shakespeare, O' Henry. Sometimes I put down the student version, run my fingers across the rippled leather of the first editions and if she had a copy, read it from there. It somehow felt more authentic, more worldly to smell the old paper, hear the pages crack and rustle as I turned them and tried to make sense of the allegories that often escaped me. I could get the gist of it. I could understand the stories, but often my youth and inexperience refused me the subtleties.

I recall waking on the first of many mornings while I stayed there. It was winter, cold and dark in the house. I think it was a Sunday and I still had unpacking to do. I snapped on a light, swung my feet to the floor and that's when it hit me and I couldn't help but giggle. My bare toes ran decadently through the very expensive and very soft burnt orange shag carpet that adorned the floor. Between the tufts of chenille, the crushed velvet, the smoothness of the mahogany and the carpet, it was veritable tactile feast for the taking. And I did.

No worries though, the feast continued on, chiefly with the walls. Two were painted and two were carefully wallpapered. I can't remember exactly which, but I believe the wall behind the bed was painted lemon yellow. Yes... I see it now, complete with the decorative base boards done in a contrasting orange a shade or two darker than the carpet. It ended abruptly at either end as the east and west walls were covered in giant hibiscus flowers of magenta, deep crimson, yellow and orange, all flocked onto the wallpaper and instantly a profusion of spring run amok in the dead of winter.

Lamps sparkled with tiny crystals and puffs of bright cotton dangling from the trim. Dressers were scarfed with rich linens that carried through the theme of spring time in a whorehouse. A copper pitcher and bowl leaned arrogantly against the wall on top of the bureau, as if daring me to move them. Fine china bells from all over the world lined the window sill in the walk-in and dainty satin padded hangers in a multitude of color held dresses wrapped in plastic straight from the cleaners.

Despite the wild array of color and style, it became my space. Not one I would have chosen for myself, but one that I grew to love just the same. After a long day of school, an every longer work day, I would retreat into this room, this apparition for which I could conjure up dancing girls, Calliope music and masculine laughter. For a moment the world seemed a better place for it having been there.

Taxi Cab Confessions

Even after all of my years spent in large and cosmopolitan cities, I still get a faint buzz from standing street side, hailing a taxi with my bare hands, stepping inside, instructing the driver and being whisked away to wherever I wish to go. There's a subtle erotic pleasure in submitting to the confinement, of being escorted and conducted effortlessly through the traffic and always the possibility that this car could be going just about anywhere. There is an aspect of power that appeals as well. Power in being the employer, however temporary it may be. Power in the anonymity. In the upholstered backseat of my car for hire and behind the smoked glass and tinted windows, I can be whomever I wish to be, albeit briefly.

It's addictive, the electricity of being driven, without question or judgment, toward something, someone that only I know. The not so subtle gaze out the window at other drivers, landmarks I've only glanced at in passing before serve only to whet my appetite. Anticipation and excitement bump up against each other, sparking a fire within me as the car approaches its destination.

It isn't just the anticipation or the empowerment, it's the sense of being taken away. Even for just a little while

Distinct Differences

Sex has intent, motion, emotion written all over it. Erotic is an impression, a preference, it just is what it is.

Who told you life was fair?

That unmistakable Virginia Slim smoldering lazily between fingers, tipped with long and immaculate talons covered in the dark, ambiguous shade of Rouge Noir, the heavy-lidded sapphire eyes rimmed expertly in grey kohl, the smoke curling sensuously around lush lips that still bear smudges of wineberry from last evening, she stares into the dawn of twilight with an air of insolent defiance.

Cheap pink wine in plastic held to a visage which takes on the semblance of badly kneaded dough thrown around on rough pavement, nostrils staring back at the world like a small pair of worn-out sockets, polo shirt a trashy shade of tangerine clashing loudly with badly-dyed, heavily teased, blonde streaks. The slack features take on an unsightly sheen under the unforgiving glare of sunlight. Her stare reflects her desperation far beyond any provocation.

Decadence clearly looks better on some people than on others

Divergent

You can't put me in a box... but I'd love it if you'd tie me up. Just a thought.

Incongruity

Interpretation of the handsome husband's likely inner dialogue whenever I've launched passionately into a new project: nice ta-ta's, man, really nice, can't stop looking - but are they worth the Mr. Toad's Wild Ride I endure every time she opens her mouth?

Just saying... it totally explains that dazed look, the glazed over eyes and the faint furrow of his brow... like he just can't seem to make sense of the incongruity of it all.

Irony

Painted neatly on a 4 inch square canvas, it made a profound statement. In the center sat the universe, painted as though one was looking at it from above. It was surrounded by the female symbol in gold and at the top off to a jaunty angle was a large diamond in a solitaire setting. It gave the appearance of having three layers but seamlessly being one unified symbol. Plain flat gray surrounded the image. So telling. I burst out laughing. First at the truth and wisdom of it's message, and second at it's creator in the midst of mad wedding planning.


And I wonder to myself: just how many woman have their entire universe defined by their marriage?

And then I wonder to myself: how many of 'those' women know that wedding rings were once a symbol of ownership. Yes ownership. Wow.

Super Sonic Evening

It's late evening yesterday and my love texts me his desire for the juicy goodness that is a supersonic cheeseburger, tater tots and a cherry vanilla dr. pepper. The flu crap has gotten the better of him and he feels like death. Only this combination that he clearly is not supposed to be eating will make it better.

I drive into the little stall, briefly peruse the menu to see if they've added anything relatively healthy and/or anything new that sounds better than a cheeseburger. Alas they have not. And there is no mention of the macaroni and cheese bites that the wee one has fallen head over heels in love with.

I order the Wacky pack chicken strips and tots for the kiddo, the cheese burger combos for my love and myself and then I inquire politely about the missing mac and cheese bites. They no longer serve them, but the order boy with his deep voice and deceptively mature sound introduces me to his utter lust for their new cinnabites. As he describes them as soft, warm, puffy bites of cinnamon and frosting, I see in my head the white dribbles of sweet frosting dripping from his mouth and fingers as he smiles and reaches up to lick his fingers rather than reach for a napkin. WTF? (me thinks I need to stop dreaming about it and start getting laid more often!)

I giggle and say no thanks. He repeats back the order to make sure he has it correct and I'm wondering what a man who has such a great voice and a fine attention to detail is doing working here. He should be working for me. He asks me how I 'll be paying for my meal and though I'm tempted to say something very different, I palm my visa and tell him I'll slide my card at the order station. He tells me it'll be out in a moment and that's when things get interesting... to say the least.

Order boy: Well... you have yourself a super sonic evening.
SD: Thank you, you do the same.
Order boy: I will...(hesitation) well... at least I'll try.... if you will
SD: Ok then... I'll try too, really.
Order boy: (soft laughter) wow... guess we're in for a great night.
SD: I certainly hope so. (cue more soft laughter)
Order boy: me too.

I sit in the darkened car waiting a moment listening to The Fray's "Over your head" and that makes me giggle. Order boy personally brings dinner to my car and the first thing I notice is that he's fucking hot. Dark tanned in the middle of winter always does it for me, that 5 o'clock shadow is sexy and those eyes... deep pools of shimmering chocolate. And he's about 15 years younger than I am. And he doesn't seem to care, as I'm juggling cups of soda and he's towering above me looking down at me, down my shirt, and then he's offering to take my empty starbucks cup to the trash. And I think I see a wink, as I tip him nicely and he thanks me and once again tells me in that low slow drawl to have a super sonic nite. You betcha boy... anytime.

Next you know I'll be turning forty and trolling cougar websites looking for boys half my age.

50 Words - Accessorize

She exited the bedroom in a shimmering cocktail mini-dress replete with twinkling rhinestones and shiny spangles, which caught the light of the nearest chandelier, blinding her waiting date. Without thinking, he asked if she planned to accessorize with a lamppost and public defender. She introduced him to the door.

50 Words - Advice to a son

Affairs without longevity still have purpose, he said,
smiling down at his young son. Test drive long distance
love for experience points and frequent-flier miles, or
date a reckless redhead just to taste the sweet
heartache and fat-lip she'll inflict upon you.
Don't believe me? Go ask your mother.

50 Words - Reassurance

Once in a while, in the middle of the night, I wake in a cold sweat after another dream of doom and gloom. A hand snakes the width of the bed, under blankets and through body pillows until I feel that familiar warmth; reassured again that he is still here.

New Light

"I haven't seen you in like, forever, where have you been?" He said to me last evening, late, thus opening the door to the inevitable banter about this, that, the weather, how long it's taking summer to get the hint and scram, you know... the predictable chatter between a man and a woman who have just a casual work related interest in one another. I answered, the usual, training, writing, moving, vacations not spent in the pursuit of all things happiness. He knew already, everyone does. "And your husband?" Three words, braced with the hint of danger.

"He's good... now." Standard reply, but this man knows me better than that. A raised eyebrow, a twitch of facial muscles, "Now?" I begin to explain the tedium and complexity of the numerous trips to the hospital, the surgeries, the pain, the recovery, the dreaded superbug, it's aftermath and finally the long, slow, painful and yet delightful and lovely road to recovery. He nods appreciatively throughout and I see something in him that has gone lacking in others. An understanding? A flicker of self discovery perhaps? It seems I've never really given this man credit for the depth that I've only now discovered. I wonder why I didn't see it before.

This man and the handsome husband are roughly the same age - give or take a couple months, they served the Army at the same time, same function and same base, they each have brothers, they almost look like they could be brothers, they have wives and each has a daughter. Both know how it feels to be separated from that female offspring for a period of time. Yes, there is understanding, there is the what-if-it-were-me thoughts, there is compassion and I'm left seeing this man, who typically gives out nicknames and makes a thousand cute jokes as he breezes past, in a completely different light now. And I find myself thinking that it's good, very good, once in a while to discover someone with such a special soul still exists in the universe.

50 Words - The Voices

The true casualties in this business are the voices that never leave my head. Years pass, memories fade, the sharpness of their realities dulls my brain, but each of their voices remain strong, clear, and daunting, whispering their sad tale, crying out their pain, lamenting their fate, each one unique and distinct.

Molasses

I found a jar of molasses on sale at the store tonight as I wandered about with my basket half full and my mind half empty of ideas for dinner. I love dark, robust black-strap molasses. Especially on cornbread. Some people use honey, butter, jam, whatever, just not me. My Dad always taught us to save our square of cornbread until we had finished the rest of our meal, usually Mom's fabulous chili and salad. And then he showed us how to lay it out in two perfect half slabs in the middle of the round dinner plate, dab on a smear of soft butter, and drizzle the thick, dark, rich syrup over it until it began to sink into the spongy square and puddle on the plate. I fondly recall the gooey forkfuls of contrasting textures and tastes. The slight crunch and blandness of the bread, the pungent, spicy almost dangerous tang of that mysterious liquid. It was always such a satisfying end to a delicious meal. Memory upon memory raised to greet me and I realized I was still standing in the middle of the baking isle holding this hefty jar of precious nectar. I love the jars, either green or yellow labels depending on variety. Robust or black-strap. I love them both equally, one's just a tad more complex and mysterious than the other. So I tossed it casually into my basket and bought it even though we already had part of a jar at home. Impulsive? Perhaps so. But oddly satisfying nonetheless. The jar at home was larger, mostly empty I reasoned, plastic and with a screw top that never stuck. I hate jars that stick and hurt my hands to open them. When I got home I opened the new jar and poured its contents into the one I already had, the jar that pleased my hands. It's a quirk of mine... an odd one I know. But I have to have things organized and in order. Two partial jars of anything... and that's what would have happened eventually when I could no longer resist the pull and the whisper of the new jar, would drive me insane. So when it was full and the new one empty, I went to screw the lid on the empty and toss it in the trash. The smell... that wonderful, spicy, rich and deep smell that I love assaulted my senses. And that's when it hit me. You remind me of molasses. After all these years... who knew?

50 words - Unsex

"So long." I lamented the length of time it's been since I've made love, "We're talking years now... plural." Disgust. Anger. Emotions long denied come flooding forth. "Self love, that's what it's all about." Laughter. A blend of feminine and masculine. "Who are you trying to convince... me or yourself?"

Hit Upon

Eastbound on the title street of my city, in rush hour traffic, sitting oddly still at a green light at the corner of 56th Ave, enjoying a catchy tune on the radio and the warmth of the early fall sun, on my cell catching up the days events with my bff, I look to my left and see a small silver car. It's westbound, but the streets in the midst of downtown are narrow and as we are both occupying the inside lane, it's occupant and I are but arms length apart. We could indeed reach out and touch one another, and I do believe that is his intention. The driver, obviously is male, and cute too. I recall a polo shirt, a glimpse of denim, close cropped blond hair, a slim face, bright white smile and blue eyes. He smiles. I smile back, I think. I am wearing dark glasses and an oversize peach t-shirt so I know he can't see me... at least not much of me. He scribbles something on a business card and hold it up. I can't see all of it, but I'm sure it is a phone number. He nods. I raise my eyebrows, mildly amused, and I tell my bff what is happening. We enjoy a chuckle which this man takes as my interest in his antics. He motions for me to roll down the window and holds the card out for me to take. I decline politely with a flash of wedding rings and drive on. A first for me I think... being hit upon in rush hour traffic on a Friday afternoon.

50 Words - Answers (a deux)

The simple questions she can answer without thinking will never be as important as those things which only one can learn by mistake. That's the crux of it really. It's what I meant when I said you cannot compare shallow textbook learning and memorization to the depths of my experience.

For along with those experiences come a mryiad of memories, indescribably joys, sheer pain, unthinkable losses, relentless grief, and ocassionally rage. Through the haze of disorganization, confusion and anguish comes speed, agility, ability and attitude; all things you know nothing of. When you begin to develop those, we'll talk.

50 Words - Velveteen Rabbit

Abandoned on a high shelf like an out of favor toy. Mostly forgotten, largely discarded, lonely and alone. Remembered once in a blue moon, when the urge strikes out of the blue. Hope springs, a smile graces my face, only to be dashed as you return me to my place.

50 Words - Sit Still Please

"Stop it! Let me go!" Punctuated pointedly, heatedly as she pries her tiny arm from my grasp. I glance around the waiting room. "Help me!" She shrieks, eyes flashing, darting, searching for a sympathetic soul to rescue her from this distress. My daughter is a two-year-old drama queen.

50 Words - Rembrandt's Light

"You've an old soul, where have you been?"
Face to face with her for the first time,
sizing each other up, I see us both in a new
light. It's the sunset's shadow, our history
together in this brief eternity. She's
Rembrandt's light, his lost love, his wife.
She is me.

50 Words - Art Of Good Phone

"Perv." Softly, she chuckled into the phone.

"You're as bad as I." He countered, the smile on his face evident despite the miles separating them.

"And you love it." She stretched, yawned, righted herself in the middle of her big brass bed pulling the linens with her.

"Indeed I do."

50 Words - Go Away

Eyes darting. Lips quivering. Sniffle. Pout. "Go away?" she asks solemnly - wide eyed. I point out the fish, ferrets, cats, humans; all still here. "Where Daddy?" whispered from the verge of tears. "Daddy go away." Hugs and tears all around. "I go away too?" Oh no my pet, never that.

50 Words - Everyone Has Secrets

With a distinctly feminine flair, scrawled in fat black ink, down low and at an angle, on the right wall of a bathroom stall, in a Goodwill store in Sun City, Arizona, on a totally random early Thursday evening: "After 40 years, I still love him and it kills me. "

75 Words - Chaos Theory

TV blaring. Street noise. Children screaming. Horns honking. Freight train rumbles past. Phone ringing. "You've got mail" shrieked from a far. Blackberry beeps and vibrates. I pay them no mind. Somewhere a stereo set too loud shorts out, "In my daughter's eyes I am a hero. I am strong and wise and I know no fear. But the truth is plain to see. She was sent to rescue me." And yes, I am deeply grateful.

Tell me no lies.

I read a blog post recently about what won't ever happen between a woman and her lover. She seemed to be almost mourning all those routine and mundane things - waking up together, having breakfast, discussing your day, chores, kid raising, falling asleep intertwined and generally falling in love.

I think she missed the spiel in life that says there's a difference between taking a lover and falling in love - one is about you and the other about someone else entirely. And the distinction is an important one. It's what keeps you sane in the face of sheer and overwhelming madness. It's the hesitation that keeps you from jumping off the cliff with both feet when you haven't considered how much damage the landing will do. It's what keeps you realistic when your heart rushes off on some wild impulse to see how green the grass is in the neighbor's yard. And most days I think the yard next door only looks so damn fabulous because I don't have to tend it. My yard? Hmm... it has some rough spots, some weeds, it constantly needs attention and watering, but the point is... it's mine and I chose it for reasons that don't have to make sens to anyone else. It brings me comfort, it treats me with kindness, affection and care. Most days it is exactly what I need whether or not I wish to admit it.

There's no saying that your lover can't or won't ultimately become the love of your life... it happens, but if you've already found the great love of your life, wouldn't you want to keep your carefully chosen lover in a whole separate place in your heart? And if you've found a great playmate and they occupy a wonderful place in your life and your heart, then why spoil it by taken them down off their pedestal and making them routine?

I think she also missed the notion that life is about possibilities and given time anything is possible too. It's not the point here.. the point was that she's bitching about having been given a rare opportunity to share a part of her that most people have no notions of. Why complain about being fortunate? Why whine because you can have both sides of the isle? But if she really wants a lifetime and not just the here and now I suppose it could ultimately be possible. And people always amaze me when they dismiss something simply because they never took the time to think it through. Would it be difficult and possibly painful all around? Sure. Would it be worth it to her? Perhaps. Not for me to decide. But impossible? Certainly not.

And yes... I'm the girl who asks why not, when being told no. So the simple answer to that is... just don't tell me no. It'll shut me up as sure as sliced bread is supposed to be the best thing since... hmm... I wonder what?

Normal

Besides the quip that goes 'normal is that half way point between what you want and what you're going to get' just what is normal? And why do the masses confuse normal with the statistically typical?

My mom started this you know.... when she said, if everyone else was jumping off a bridge would you do it to? No mom, of course not. But then again, now that I'm officially grown up, she says to me... by your age everyone has their career in hand, so it's time you had children, bought a home and settled down. Everyone??? or just because it's the statistically typical thing to do, I should be doing it? Yeah... that I think.

So here I am, stepping of that bridge... had the kid, managing the career and now... yeah, venturing forth into the dreaded process of buying a home. Yikes!

There's even a website now... for those of us normally challenged folks... www.isitnormal.com So you can indeed ask the question if something in your life is normal and get a pat answer. Ugh.

Fifty Words - Hope (Twice)

I heard her say it: When hope is all you have left, all you really have is hope. So said the woman who'd never been there, never lived perched precariously on the edge of that cliff. The truth is, when hope is all you have left, you really have nothing.

Continuing on...

Once you reach the point where hope remains the one constant in your existance, the commodity quickly becomes more than you can afford. Like the grand house on the hill, the dream car, the luxe furnishings: you can reach out blindly, stretch beyond your limits, but you'll never quite reach.